“You’ll find that will be more helpful than you know.”
Because other senior officers would think you’re a barbarian if you don’t speak well. Lerial finds that amusing, given that some of the senior Magi’i in Cigoerne still believe that Hamorian is a totally barbarous tongue.
“I take it that Duke Atroyan remains in Swartheld at present.”
“He does.”
Lerial can sense that there is more that the subcommander is not saying … and likely not to offer even if asked, at least not at the moment. He also wonders about the proper time to present the miniature portrait of Amaira to Rhamuel, and if he will be able to meet with the arms-commander privately enough to slip him the portrait of his daughter. “Where are we headed?”
“The staging area is set on the duke’s lands south of Luba, right on the river. It’s at the end of the causeway that serves as a river road. This road goes there directly. That way we don’t have to ride through Luba.” A twisted smile follows those words. “It’s better that way.”
Lerial immediately worries about being directed away from the city itself, but he can sense no falsehoods or evasions … and no shields. That worries him. You’d better be ready for anything. He renews and reinforces his own shields, nodding politely. “If you would lead…”
“Of course.” Drusyn nods, then turns his mount, and starts down the more southern of the two roads, followed by the squad of Afritan Guards.
For all of Lerial’s concerns, he can sense nothing out of the ordinary for the roughly three kays that they ride before approaching a gray stone wall, with stone gateposts three yards high. The stone wall stretches a half kay in each direction before coming to a corner surmounted by a low stone tower. The walls extend eastward to the Swarth River, from what Lerial can sense. There is also another set of gates on the north wall that front the causeway that Drusyn has mentioned. The grilled iron gates in the middle of the west wall are swung open, but four Afritan Guards man them, two by each post. The guards do not move as the Afritans ride through, followed by Lerial’s three companies and the three wagons that bring up the rear. The lane beyond the gates is stone-paved, the first paved way Lerial has seen since entering Afrit almost an eightday before.
Once through the gates, Lerial can not only sense but see a structure more than twice the size of the palace in Cigoerne, if not even larger, surrounded by a score of outbuildings, all of gray stone. In the southwest corner of the walled compound is a hill, and upon it a round tower, rising higher than the main building. For a moment, Lerial is puzzled; then he nods. A water tower. To the south of the seasonal or regional palace, for that is what it must be, or something similar, are rows upon rows of tents, and south of the tents are railed corrals, filled with mounts.
Just what sort of attack does Rhamuel anticipate? What if Khesyn actually intends to attack Swartheld itself from Estheld? Or does Rhamuel have forces mustered in both places? The last possibility may be why Rhamuel—and Lerial is fairly certainly it was Rhamuel, using his brother’s seal—requested aid from Cigoerne. You’ll find out sooner or later.
Lerial’s speculations are cut short as Drusyn rides back along the paved lane and then turns his mount to ride alongside Lerial. “The arms-commander has bivouacked your forces beside the south gate. That’s a bit separate from ours, but he thought it might be best that way.”
“South gate? Does it lead anywhere?”
“Just into the hunting park, but there’s a road beside the wall that goes all the way to the west gate, and then to the north gate.”
“That’s very thoughtful on his part.” Lerial understands. Rhamuel doesn’t want him to feel that his forces would be trapped. He turns in the saddle. “Fheldar … would you have the word passed to Undercaptain Kusyl and Undercaptain Strauxyn about the quartering arrangements.”
“Yes, ser.”
Before long, Lerial and the Cigoernean companies are riding down a cleared space in the middle of the rows of tents.
“The long tents are for your men—twenty-five pallets to each tent,” says Drusyn. “We weren’t certain whether you had twenty or twenty-five men to a squad. The smaller tent is for your company officers. The arms-commander has quarters for you and the other senior officers in the country house … at your discretion, of course.”
“I’ll be the only one staying at the country house. Otherwise, it will be hard to meet with the other senior officers … besides you, of course.”
“There are more than a few who would like to meet you. It’s been years since anything like that has happened.”
“I did meet a squad leader some six years ago, north of Tirminya,” comments Lerial. “Never any officers.”